


The One Where Jack Wears Nothing

by Castanea



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blowjobs, Character Study, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 12:51:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20778869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castanea/pseuds/Castanea
Summary: A sequel to 'The One Where Reaper Wears Swim Shorts'. Jack Morrison flees the aftermath of his mission in Cairo, to confront Reaper on his own terms.





	The One Where Jack Wears Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, thanks for the wonderful response to the last fic. I’ve read two whole pieces of Overwatch media now! 
> 
> This is a sequel to ‘The One Where Reaper Wears Swim Shorts.' In this scenario, Jack and Ana’s final confrontation with Hakim is successful, but messy. In the immediate aftermath, Jack splits off from Ana to find shelter in another part of the city. 
> 
> This is a birthday present for my very first spouse. You know who you are. I give you a Gabriel, all the way from LA.

Jack Morrison books it to the edge of Cairo like the devil’s after him. No one sees. No one’s out, because a nasty storm is on the way. 

There. A pock-marked old beast of a building that must have been a hotel, once. Jack dips into its shadows, grit hissing behind him as the wind picks up. The burnt-out lobby’s empty. So’s the stairwell, up and up past missing steps and gouged out walls. Everything’s red through his visor, but he can tell that the light filtering through the windows is purple. Hail weather. Lightning weather. Get your ass inside weather. The kind of evening that dropped half an oak tree on his dad’s shed, back when he was a kid. 

Now he’s dragging his scratched up old body all the way to the top of the hotel, not trying to hide away too well. Just well enough, just out of reach enough that only one person will have any hope of catching him, and maybe this can all go down in private. The fanciest suites are up there, cut off from scavengers by fifty-five floors of unstable infrastructure. 

He steps off the last stair into a rooftop spa. A mouldering sign hangs from the double glass doors. It implores him in a dozen languages to head right in and ‘undress to his level of comfort.’ Jack has been to spas before in happier times, and he’s never known what the fuck that means. Today it means naked. 

Saunas are no good without electricity, the face masks will have rotted long ago, and there’s no way the water’s on, but damned if there isn’t a fully stocked bar in its own little corner. He peels out of his suit and armor as he hones in on a bottle of scotch. It was knocked over in the blast that gutted the bottom half of the building, or maybe in the aftermath when people were scrambling to get out alive. There’s a handful of drams left. Jack drains the bottle in one pull. He’s shaking, caked in sour sweat. The sting of the whiskey calms him a little. 

It was irresponsible to have a drink before properly scouting the surroundings. So he catalogues: the outer wall is smooth wave of glass, still intact somehow. It opens onto an observation deck, home to an empty pool and jumbled up deck chairs rattling in the wind. Jack lets himself admire the fantastic view of the city and desert beyond – the only luxury left in what was once a playground for the ultra-rich. 

Jack wanders out into the open. He imagines he can feel Reaper coming nearer with the thunderstorm. The tension builds, pricks the back of his neck. The air’s hot. Pure syrup. That rain better come soon, because this is terrible. The only thing left to do is wait. 

He’s sent up his equivalent of a signal flare with his actions. If Gabriel didn’t show up to stop him when he wrapped up that business with Hakim, he’s certainly going to run after Jack now. 

Let it happen. 

The rain hits all at once, and it’s brutal. He’s drenched in seconds. Not even the whiskey felt this good; maybe nothing ever will again. Jack is cooled from his skin to his heart. He thinks, I could sleep out here. 

Reaper arrives in the blink between lightning strikes. A clot of darkness congeals at the edge of the rooftop, expanding into the shape of a man striding closer. He gets within striking distance – and stops in that complete way only corpses can manage. 

Jack chokes on a laugh. What does this even look like? A battered old man holding a rifle, balls-out naked in the rain, hair plastered to his scalp. Not saying anything. 

It could be funny. 

It’s not. The pause is over, Reaper marches towards him with a final swell of inevitability. He pushes Jack into the glass wall with a fist to the chest, sharp fingertips gouging deep. His gun presses against Jack’s thinning hairline. The rain is so loud. 

The last time they met, Reaper put a hole in Jack’s back. The time before that, Gabriel sucked him off in the heart of Talon headquarters. You could say they’ve had a sizable range of interactions. 

Jack starts off the conversation. “We can’t keep meeting like this.” 

“Don’t worry. We won’t.” 

“You didn’t shoot me in the head last time, when you had a clear shot at me. So I’m not that scared, sorry.” 

Gabriel’s gun scrapes down Jack’s face and chest. Jack’s healing back aches in some strange sympathy. 

Gabriel says, close to his ear, “I could kill you in a way you can’t come back from, and I don’t have to aim for your head to make it happen.” 

“Yeah.” 

“You played the selfless vigilante, neutralizing Hakim’s operation. Typical. So up your own ass you convince yourself you’ll get away a second time. That’s one time too many, Jack.” 

“Actually, I did this all to get to you.” 

He doesn’t bother trying to make it sound sarcastic. 

Old soldiers don’t get to have families. Maybe this is the most they can manage in the end, a twisted, hungry thing. A sense of importance to a comrade. Gabriel could maim him or fuck him and Jack would still feel this way. There is nothing that Gabriel could do to change that. He is everything except irrelevant. One of them will always be tracking the other down to get revenge, or get answers, or get 

this. 

Jack kisses the mask.  
He could sleep in this rain. He guesses he wouldn’t mind dying out here, not too much. The mask is metal, it turns out. It feels about the way you’d expect, but Jack does his best to work with what’s in front of him. It’s probably the most romantic thing he’s ever done. He means it with everything he has. Reaper doesn’t respond. Jack pulls away just enough to speak, and asks, 

“Remember how I taste?” 

If that doesn’t get him shot, he reckons he’s in the clear. Gabriel does his corpse stillness again. It’s too much, like he really is dead, and that’s the one thing that wouldn’t be okay. Jack goes to his knees. He puts down his gun, gently, to the side. They’re in that place where anything can happen, including blowjobs. The rain is making a curtain around them. It’s all right. This was always going to happen eventually, a bookend to that time by the pool. Jack and Gabe, the friends and co-workers, used to trade off beer tabs. ‘You got the last round, Morrison, my turn now.’ It’s only fair. It’s allowed in their strange, unspoken rules, it must be. 

Gabriel doesn’t take off his clothes. They’re just gone, smoke dissolving in the rain. Jack can’t stop himself from thinking, stupidly, ‘Now we match.’ 

Gabriel tastes like a living man. He’s solid against Jack’s lips. Who knows how a shapeless fog can also be warm flesh, but here we are. The moment spins out slowly. Jack won’t speed up, but he won’t stop. A hand clenches against the back of his neck. It doesn’t matter. St. Peter and a choir of angels couldn’t make him go any faster. It’s so easy to be doing this. So good. He works the head with his tongue. All he wants is for Gabe to thrust, go weak at the knees, anything, move. 

He gets one jerk of the hips as a warning, then takes the cock as deep as he can. 

Jack swallows. He makes a show of it. Gabriel stares at his open mouth, looking so alive despite everything. Jack knows that they’re going to tear each other up. 

They do. Right there on the ground, rain keeping them slick against each other, hands wherever they want. They make out like teenagers. They grind into each other’s fists. At one point, Jack fucks Gabriel’s mouth again, and somehow it’s better than last time. 

There’s no one around to interrupt them. So where does it end? If they’d been together like this when they were young, they could have screwed all day and all night without ever getting tired. Jack loses himself in that fantasy for a while, like he would never allow himself in their glory days. He strokes Gabe through a third orgasm. Says his name. None of the rich assholes who came to this rooftop spa ever got to feel this decadent, Jack Morrison would swear. 

They do wear out some time later. They rest on their backs, side by side, almost falling into the empty pool but neither of them seem to care. 

“Hey, Gabe.” 

“Hm?” 

“Did you try to blow me up?” 

“You know my answer. ‘What do you think?’” 

Jack looks for patterns in the twisting rain clouds. He says, “I don’t know. I hope you didn’t. Though if you didn’t, that would just be … a big shame on its own, wouldn’t it? ‘Cause all this shit happened anyway.” 

“Guess so.” 

“Either way, you want me dead.” 

Gabriel shifts closer. “I don’t want you dead. I want to kill you.” 

Jack blinks into the rain. “An important distinction. I guess I just want you to… I don’t know, be my friend? Like me? Would that be crazy?” 

“Jesus, Jack.” A heartbeat later, so quiet it’s lost in the rain, “I still have your visor.” 

“Really?” 

“I’m not going to say it again.” 

“It was hell getting a new one,” Jack says, trying not to smile. 

They don’t speak for a while. 

“But you want to kill me?” 

Gabe says, “Not right now.” 

How long can ‘now’ be? Could he stretch this on and on until Gabriel snipes him at their nursing home? Could one of them go through life naked at all times so the screwing dynamic wins out over the killing one? 

“Did you try to blow me up?” Jack asks again. The third time now. 

“Does it even matter?” 

“It does matter. Everything you do matters to me.” 

This gets a reaction. That has been Jack’s main goal this whole encounter. Will they fight or fuck, or land in the spot they used to occupy so easily, where they could be friends who buy beer for each other? 

Gabriel moves.


End file.
